City of Angels
by runningbox11
Summary: Castiel is bred to kill. He's an angel, a vessel of chaotic power and archaic skill. All he's ever known is loyalty, but a chance meeting has left him searching for more. Destiel, Sabriel if you squint, M for language and smut in later updates. Warning for major character death.
1. Chapter 1

One time, when Castiel was young, he ventured outside to brood silently in the park as he usually did. This time, though, the park was not its usual, desolate self, there was a woman. She was not pretty, but she wasn't ugly, not short, not tall. She had burnt pumpkin hair and a worn but smiling face, with glowing eyes and prominent musculature. She had been sitting, wrapped in flannel and denim, on a bench, a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird nestled under her chafed hands.  
He had walked past cautiously, folding his wings tight against his back so she wouldn't see them, but she looked up with a smile as he passed. He met her gaze apprehensively. The little voice at the back of his mind, that centuries-old instinct, told him she could see his wings, to run, alert his father, have her eliminated, but she just nodded. "Evening, angel." She said. Her voice was laced with a southern drawl and had the sharp tongue and warm softness of a mother. He stood in shock for a moment at her calm demeanor, watching as she closed the book and laid down on the bench. Her eyes closed, her breathing shallowed, and her muscles relaxed as she slept. He approached her, wings extended slightly, and pressed a hand to her forehead. Mind reading wasn't very comfortable: Images flashing around and around and only glimpses to see. This woman had pictures of two boys, small, scrawny, green-eyed, and a man, gruff but kind, and a little girl, white-blonde and sweet, with intense feelings of love accompanying the images.  
A family, he thought, is this what a family is?  
Her eyes fluttered open and he pulled away sharply.  
"It's alright, Angel," she said with a little smile as she sat up. "I can feel you, poking around in my head."  
"There's a lot of love." He whispered. "People you love."  
"Yes," she said. "They're my family. Do you not have one, Angel?"  
He didn't even stutter. "I have a family." He said.  
"Do you love them?" She asked.  
He stared at the woman for a moment. He couldn't think. That wasn't what families were for. They were your team, your loyalties, your superiors.  
He ran, oh he ran.  
The seeds are dropped into the dirt.

A dull ache settled into Castiel's legs as he woke up. His mind didn't even realize it was from the rigorous training the day before, the ache was so common that he unconsciously reached for the bottle of ibuprofen on his black brushed steel shelf. He washed two pills down with a swig of Gatorade and climbed out of bed.  
He didn't bother brushing his hair, it just looked bad, so he threw on his tan hoodie and grabbed his Senheisers and was out the door before Michael could bust him.  
The winter air was pleasantly cold, and he felt himself smiling as he rubbed the arms of his hoodie for friction and warmth. The streets of Los Angeles were packed with cars and people, dead looking and washed out. A young man with long black tattoos of tentacles running up his arms and a tattooed eye on his forehead strolled past, chatting into his phone casually. A brusque man in a blue scarf with tangled black hair pushed past rudely, followed by an apologetic middle aged blonde. He kept walking, his feet touching the pavement in a slightly slower beat than his music. He nodded softly as he reached a packed crosswalk, a blonde girl in a blue leather jacket pushing frantically past. She elbowed his back, and he arched up protectively, strings of pain pushing through the bones of his wings. She shot him an apologetic glance, and his eyes narrowed in a silent conversation, hundreds of which he had daily.  
The crowd of crosswalkers began to shift, and he lagged behind just enough to stay out of the fray as they migrated across the street. One of the cars was too far in: A black Chevy, manned by a dirty blonde man in a leather jacket, a tall brunette bodybuilder riding shotgun. He glared at them narrowly, but they didn't seem to notice.  
Once he was on Ventura, he wandered down the pavilion until he hit the bagel shop he loved so much. He ordered three sourdough bagels and took a minute to admire the floral arrangements. He sat on the patio and ate his bagels, taking sips of his juice and staring at the cheap hotels and European eateries adjacent to the boulevard. Cars rushed in and out, a bird landed on the bushes briefly, couples came and went, and he finished his breakfast in silence.  
"Castiel?"  
He whipped around, arms protectively snapped out, like an instinct, to see a blonde man in baggy cargos and a green field jacket layered heavily over a sweatshirt and a wife beater. His cutoff gloves were wrapped around a grungy, paint stained backpack, and his hair was loosely wrapped around his ears.  
"Gabriel."  
He bristled at the sight of his elder brother, partly out of fear, partly out of respect, but mostly out of anger. Gabriel had abandoned the family business shortly after Luke and Michael had a falling out, leaving the younger children to be raised by the strict and abusive Michael.  
"Hiya, Cassie. Mind if I sit?" He queried, lifting an eyebrow and nodding towards the empty chair opposite Castiel.  
"Go ahead." He grumbled.  
He threw his backpack under the table, hitting Castiel's legs with a metallic thud.  
"Still doing your 'art'?" Cas grimaced. He'd seen Gabriel's graffiti everywhere around the city, most commonly in the river, and every time he looked at it he kind of wanted to punch someone.  
"Yup!" Gabriel grinned, smug excitement spreading through his features. He stole a sip of Castiel's juice. "Still training like a dog, little brother?"  
"I train because I want to," he hissed through his teeth, knuckles white as he gripped his iPod.  
"Whatever, but I'm still calling you Michael's little bitch." Gabe scoffed. Castiel grabbed the juice out of his brother's hand and capped it, shoving it in his pocket and standing up. "I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. Michael's gonna kill me."  
"Why do you listen to him?" Gabe sighed loudly. "He's a dick!"  
Castiel tried very hard not to slap his older brother. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out, back home.  
The seeds were watered.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a weekend, so Castiel wasn't obligated to do training. He opted instead for a day in Hollywood, meandering through the Ripley's Believe it or Not emporium. Half the exhibits were shams or coincidences, but the weird science intrigued him. Made him feel a little more normal.  
He was on the subway on his way home when his phone rang. It was up to his ear in seconds.  
"Michael."  
"Castiel, we've got a gang of hoodlums to take down. Take care of it. At the corner of Buena Vista and Washington." Castiel sighed and calculated in his head where it was, how fast he could get there, and where the culprits would be by the time he made it.  
He got off at the next stop and immediately rushed up the stairs, knocking over a lanky man in a bowtie and hitting the street running. He found the nearest alleyway, and within seconds, he was in the air, wings extended to about 15 feet.  
Castiel loved flying. Something about freedom, strength... Whatever it was, it felt incredible. Gave him an impossible rush.  
His wings were the color of ink-soaked shadows, ruffled and sharp and wide. They caught the wind and lifted him, sent him soaring.  
Normal people couldn't see his wings. The only ones capable of that were other Angels and some people, most of which had been eliminated shortly after discovery. The only one who hadn't been was Ellen Singer. He had met her in that shadowy park all those years ago, then gone home and done private research on her. Her records were nearly empty, besides a birth certificate and a few arrests. She was almost unknown.  
Castiel tried not to dwell on Ellen. She had changed something in him, something that scared him. Something he didn't want to think about. He shook his head and tried to get back to his search. He peered down. About 30 blocks up and to the left, that's where he assumed the culprits were.  
Angels were terrifying. The last thing you wanted to run into as a criminal was one of them.  
They were trained since birth: Physically, mentally, emotionally. They were cold, unfeeling, strong, fast, cunning, and brilliant. The Angels were feared above all.  
Cas had always gone into a fight with nonchalant confidence. He'd never lost, it had never been a problem. Never in his life. Until now.  
"Demons." He growled, snapping into stance. This wasn't his first run-in with the gang, he'd had a brush with some of the grunts years ago which had left him pretty badly beaten up. He wasn't worried this time though, he had recieved a good amount more of training.  
He landed in front of them, snapped into a fighting stance, wings pressed into his shoulder blades.  
"Angel boy," one of them smirked. His accent was distinguishably British, and he had a cocky grin that made him angry. "Castiel, I've heard? So good to meet you."  
"Shut up." He gritted his teeth.  
"Well, that's not terribly polite, is it?" He frowned. "My name is Crowley. I'm your brothers... Second in command, you might say."  
"SHUT UP!" Castiel shouted, taking a swing at Crowley.  
All hell broke loose.  
Two of the grunts lunged at Castiel, who hit them point-blank in the stomachs, but was knocked off balance. Another grunt took advantage and went for Castiel's jaw. Cas whirled into the street, dazed, and looked up to see the dusky headlights of a bus.  
"LOOK OUT!" A voice called. Castiel was paralyzed. Suddenly, a solid object hit him, and he felt the asphalt, warm and crunchy, under his arm. His mind tried to assess the damage, tried to collect itself. Everything was whirling. He heard the sounds of shouts, felt his wing snap, and everything went dark.

Cas awoke in a well-lit room. Sunshine streamed through the cloudy windows, illuminating a mass of cluttered bookshelves and tables. There were open inkwells and brushes, with paper strewn everywhere. Another window on the far end looked over a ravine filled with craggy rocks and shrubs. He grunted as he sat up, and shrieked as a bolt of pain shot through his wing.  
The shriek echoed off the walls and he was left with a tingling in his wing and a ringing in his ears. Being cautious of his wing, he tried again to sit up, and groaned as a dull ache set in. His first instinct was to go for the ibuprofen, but he realized quickly that that would be ineffective.  
He hobbled to the doorway and peered out to see a boy sleeping in an armchair opposite a buzzing TV. He was sprawled ridiculously out, head lolled back against the arm, legs stacked on the nearby piles of books. He tentatively retreated back into the room he was in before and searched until he dug up his tan hoodie. He nearly cried when he saw his nice headphones were in a grocery bag, shattered into small pieces of metal and silicone.  
He left the headphones and snuck out into the crowded TV room.  
As he tiptoed through, he noticed a collection of pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall. He glanced back at the sleeping boy to ensure he was indeed still sleeping. He was, and he figured it would be okay to take a quick glance at the photos, scope out his surroundings. He scanned them briefly, there was a picture of a gruff looking man standing in front of the sign of a salvage yard, and picture of two young boys with rifles cocked, smiling brightly. There was a drawing of a yellow bird done in crayon framed, with the caption "Finchy".  
He was about to leave when something caught his eye. It was a tarnished looking photo of a young woman, smiling eyes and a green sundress. Her hair was a luscious pumpkin orange with streaks of chocolatey brown.  
"Ellen." He whispered. "I'm in Ellen's house."  
"Hey."  
He felt a cold ring of metal dig into the base of his skull. "Angel boy. What are you doing up?"  
The boy had woken up. Little did Castiel know, so had a part of him.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sam was little, he was lonely often. With uncle Bobby working in the salvage yard, their Dad took them to shooting ranges and martial arts classes. He learned what he had to, but he preferred to read. Uncle Bobby had tons of books. Books on science, on math, on everything. He found his friends in fictional characters. They gave him someone to know, someone to believe in. It made him feel accepted.  
He once came upon Uncle Bobby's "special" library. The first book he opened was covered in diagrams, calligraphical ink and detailed drawings. He read it maybe a hundred times. It was about angels, mysterious beings who walked the earth with special powers and most of all, wings. At first, they were fiction like anything else, but soon, they seemed real. Uncle Bobby and his father would speak of them sometimes. Dean never mentioned them, of course, but he could tell that he knew something. He noticed that the angels could be summoned if prayed to. It was decided he would pray, to see if they were real.  
He knelt down (he assumed that that was what you did) and clasped his tiny hands together.  
"Dear angel," he began. "I am very lonely. Dean is a good big brother, but would you please help me make a friend? If you exist, please just send me a signal. Thank you. Also, I'm Sam Winchester. If you need a name. Thanks."  
He waited and waited, but there was no sign. He sat up for hours, waiting, but no signal came. Finally, he fell asleep, disappointed that the angels were just another story.  
That night, Sam dreamt of a bird. It was huge and golden, with beautiful brown eyes. It stared at him silently for a few minutes before nudging his cheek. He found himself on its back, soaring over the stretch of Los Angeles skyline. He stared down into the streets, saw the cars rushing about, watched the buildings morph and shape as the bird flew faster and faster. Soon, the bird swooped down, dipping into the Los Angeles river. He jumped off onto the thick cement and looked around. The walls were covered in beautiful art, intricate and delicate and bold. It was fascinating. He turned to see another boy, maybe his age. He had a brown hoodie on, a can of yellow paint clutched in his hand. His hair was a pleasant gold. He turned to smile at Sam.  
"You asked for an angel. Here I am."  
That's when Sam woke up. The dream seemed so real. He could vividly see the boy's mischievous grin as he finished off the paint.  
For months, he dreamed of the bird, soaring over the streets of LA. Never again did he see the boy, but he would see all kinda of art. He'd walk onto the pavilion in downtown LA, he'd see the abstract sculptures, study the buildings, listen to the music, watch dances. When he woke up, he'd rush to the computer and look the art styles up, pore over them until he knew what they were. He even grew to love the bird, nick naming it Finchy.  
One night, the dreams just stopped. He no longer soared above the skyline. He'd wake up angry, abruptly. He missed Finchy. He pushed to restart the dreams, taking the subway to the arts district and wandering all day, taking notes on the things he saw, but the dreams never returned.  
When his dad died, he became frustrated and lonely. He hid away in his room and wrote poetry, drew pictures, played music on his old guitar. He started a journal and catalogued his days. Life was gray. He didn't even remember the angels until one day, when he was sitting alone in his room. He noticed the corner of the book falling from the bookshelf. His whole body lept up to catch it as it fell, and in that instant, he remembered. He remembered the stories of angels. He remembered praying and he wondered if maybe, just maybe, the prayers would work.  
He got on his knees again and clenched his hands until they were white. "Angel..." He whispered. "Please come back."  
He waited for a minute or so, staring around with a half-hearted expectation of seeing someone, something. Instead there was nothing.  
He woke up the next morning with an oddly warm feeling in his chest. His journal had somehow been dropped next to his bed, and as he leaned down to retrieve it, he noticed a not sticking out. He unrolled it.  
"Sam Winchester-  
I'm sorry I haven't called. I've been really busy. But I haven't forgotten you. I'll come back, I promise.  
-G and Finchy."  
Sam taped the note to the inside cover of his journal and waited.

Cas would have easily disarmed the boy, had he been in the physical condition to do so. With his wing sprained, he was slightly lame. The boy lowered the barrel a bit when Cas relaxed his shoulders.  
"You really shouldn't be up. You're hurt. You've broken three ribs, you have a serious concussion, and your ankle is sprained. Not to mention the fact that you have about a hundred cuts and bruises. You shouldn't be able to walk."  
"Yeah, I've had worse." He quipped. "Care to give me a reason not to leave?"  
"I want to know that I saved you for a reason. I could have let you get hit by a bus, you know."  
"Fair enough." Cas murmured. "But I'm gonna leave anyways."  
He whirled, ignoring the pain that shot through his leg and knocked the gun to the ground. His good wing flew out for balance, knocking the boy in the head with a painful crack. He fell to the floor and Castiel hurried out.  
As far as he could tell, he wasn't far from the city. He couldn't fly, not with a lame wing, so he hobbled down the street until he managed to get a bit of reception on his cell.  
"Michael?" He grunted. His older brother's voice shouted angrily through the phone.  
"USELESS IDIOT! I SEND YOU TO TAKE CARE OF A SMALL GROUP, YOU NEARLY GET YOURSELF KILLED. BE BACK HOME IN AN HOUR FOR TRAINING."  
"Michael, my ankle is-"  
"I DONT CARE. ONE HOUR, CASTIEL, THEN WE'RE YOUR HUNTERS. I'D LIKE TO REMIND YOU YOU'RE AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS FAMILY. YOU'RE THE DIRT WE WOULDN'T WIPE OUR HANDS IN IF WE HAD TO." The line went dead, and Cas exhaled, worn out from Michael's latest torrent of verbal abuse. He turned to start down the road to the subway station and began limping along as fast as was possible.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been days since Castiel's incident. His brothers and sisters were still shunning him, refusing to interact with him. He'd seen Gabriel around a bit more, his paint mask stained almost green. He'd seen his latest murals, and as much as he wanted to hate them, they were kind of cool. Massive pictures of wildlife mingling with warped humans. He supposed it was a statement, or a metaphor for the family. Warped, trying to save what they thought was inferior.  
He hadn't run into the boy again, but Ellen was once again on his mind. What did she have to do with that boy? Why did the boy save him? It intrigued him. He even flew over the house once or twice when his wing had healed.  
He wasn't expecting it when it happened, but he was downtown one day, near the jewlery district, when he caught sight of someone running. It was- Was that...?  
He ran after him, feet pounding. What was he doing? Shouldn't he be avoiding this kid? He couldn't stop though, and he caught up to him.  
"Yo!" He called. The boy's head whipped sideways. "It's you!" He said, his eyes growing wide. "Fuck- Why are you following me?"  
Castiel had no answer. He just sort of stared at the boy, mouth agape.  
He didn't realize the boy was waiting for an answer until he yelled. "Hey, angel! Answer me!"  
No. No, this was a very bad idea and Michael would be very upset. He needed to get home. He needed to forget this. They stopped running, slowing to a halt outside an Italian restaraunt.  
"Castiel. My name is Castiel. Who are you, and why did you save me?"  
"What, that?" The boy looked puzzled. "Always help the needy, that's the Winchester motto. And I'm pretty sure 'about to get hit head-on by a bus' counts as needy. At least it does in my book."  
Castiel nodded subtly. "So... You saved me, just because I needed help?"  
"Well... Yeah."  
"Your family didn't order you to?"  
"Well, you could say that. Uncle Bobby and Aunt Ellen have sort of raised us kids to help others. When Aunt Ellen told me who you were... WHAT you were, it just made me feel even weirder."  
"Ellen." He whispered. His eyes grew wide. "What do you know about Ellen?"  
The boy looked puzzled. "Uh... She's sort of my aunt. My dad and her husband worked together for a while. Her husband is my uncle Bobby. They have a daughter, Jo, who's kinda my sister. I don't really know what else to tell you. She makes a great zucchini bread...?"  
"No, her knowledge of the angels!" He snapped. "What of them?"  
"Oh. Well, uh, she's got this journal. I didn't know it existed until I caught my little brother reading it. It's huge. It's got stuff pouring out the bindings."  
Cas felt his body go numb. A human had more information on the angels, MUCH more than they should have. This was very dangerous. Maybe even Father dangerous. But he didn't budge.  
"What's your name?"  
"Dean Winchester."  
"Interesting. Well, then, Dean, I'll see you around, I suppose."  
Dean nodded slowly, a singular nod that showed his apprehension as he kicked up his feet and ran away. Cas whipped out his mobile and dialed a number he had nearly forgotten.  
"Anna? We need to talk."

He stood outside the doors to the school with his hands dug inside his pockets. He didn't want to check his watch again, he knew if he did he'd only grow more impatient. The windows were tinted with the dark blinds in each classroom, and he couldn't tell if the classes were nearing completion.  
"Damnit, Anna..." He muttered, shuffling his feet and adjusting the volume on his music as it switched songs. Just as he was about to check the time, the door clicked open. A brazen, red-framed face peered out, lips parted poetically as a single rose wingtip fluttered past the threshold.  
"Anna." He called. She snapped to look at him, eyes narrowing. "Castiel."  
"Anna," He said again. "It's so good to see you again."  
She smiled hesitantly and opened the door more, stepping into the nippy winter air. "I could say the same, Cas. What's going on?"  
"I need information." He blurted. "On Dean Winchester. Inside information."  
"That won't be hard." She smirked. "He's a delinquent. Used to be captain of the football team, but he's long since lost that position to grades and the ever-sloping pit of trouble that often comes with the loss of a parent."  
"Which parent is dead?" He questioned.  
"Both. His mother died in a house fire and his dad died in a drunk car accident."  
"Other family?"  
"Sam Winchester. His little brother, bookworm, brilliant, but his grades aren't all that great. Unrelated is Jo Harvelle-Singer, the daughter of Ellen Singer from a previous marriage." She smirked at Castiel's face. "You mentioned you took an interest in Ellen at one point, correct?"  
Cas nodded slowly. "Can Dean Winchester see angel wings?"  
"No, he can't." She assured him. "He's an easy one to read, and he has seen hide nor hair of my wings."  
He exhaled. "So we won't need to eradicate him."  
"You seem worried." She frowned. "Is there a reason?"  
"No- well, he saved my life, but that's minor penance, I suppose." He shifted his feet impatiently. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"  
Anna threw him a questioning look that blended into a nod as she slipped back into the school.


	5. Chapter 5

Gabe felt his pocket buzz with another text. He pulled out his phone and unlocked it to read it.  
Sent by contact CASTIEL NOVAK at 10:16 PM: Gabriel, do you have any information on the Winchester/Harvelle/Singer family?  
He grinned to himself. Man, he hadn't heard those names in- well, he hadn't heard those names since he got himself a prayer from one Sam Winchester. He pulled up the text menu and composed his reply.  
Sent by YOU at 10:18 PM: Yeah, Sammy Winchester. Sort of a friend, I guess.  
His phone had bleeped within ten seconds of him sending it.  
Sent by contact CASTIEL NOVAK at 10:18 PM: All the info you have  
Then:  
Sent by contact CASTIEL NOVAK at 10:19 PM: don't tell Michael  
Gabriel's smile faded a bit. Loyal little Castiel, purposely not telling Michael? Something wasn't right.  
Sent by YOU at 10:20 PM: what's the matter, have you finally pulled your ignorant head out of your feathery ass and realized he's a dick?  
His phone was awkwardly silent for a few minutes before it buzzed again.  
Sent by contact CASTIEL NOVAK at 10:24 PM: he's not a dick, Gabriel. Now give me the information.  
He nearly slammed his phone to the pavement. Was Castiel an idiot? Michael was wearing him like a dress to prom. No, scratch that, Cas didn't even qualify as the dress. He was his left shoe. He was a sheep, a brainless herd animal, and it pissed him off. Wasn't Cas supposed to be a smart one? For gods sakes, he was the best strategist Michael had. "Strategize this!" He verbalized, sending his message. It didn't make much sense, but it sounded dramatic.  
Sent by YOU at 10:26 PM: They are desperate, lonely people  
His heart twinged a little when he imagined Sam, so happy, so entranced as he flitted to and from the pieces of art Gabriel loved so much, appreciation, REAL appreciation glowing from his face. Desperate, lonely, sure, but he had hope, he had passion, and maybe that's what Gabriel saw in him.  
Sent by YOU at 10:28 PM: but there's something there, Castiel. maybe you should look for it.

Dean needed to go for a drive.  
He jabbed the keys into the ignition and jogged his Baby into drive. Uncle Bobby was still out back with Sam, he'd be back before he even noticed.  
As he drove down the cracked desert road, Kansas blasting through his speakers, he felt himself let go. There was more going on with him than he wanted to give himself credit for. A kind of pain seeping through him that he tried to deny, tried to stunt, but instead it chilled his blood, sent shrapnel through his veins. Painful memories floated to the top of his mind.  
"Angels, Dean. They're the most wonderful creatures in existence." His mother- Soft blonde hair, a warm, wrinkled smile. She was making cinnamon buns, and the whole kitchen smelled like burnt sugar and peace.  
"Are the angels beautiful?" Dean remembered saying. His mother had kneeled down and brought his face into her hands. "Oh, many are. But Dean, there's something you can't forget. Not ever." He nodded vigorously. "Remember: It doesn't matter how you look on the outside. Looks will change. But if you're a truly great person, you shine from the inside."  
Dean didn't know what that meant. He remembered cinnamon buns and laughter, he remembered Sammy falling over and stubbing his toe. It was a good memory, warm. But with that memory came pain, ignorant, blinding pain. Heat and flames that licked at his heels as he cradled Sammy, as his father choked for air, as his mom tried desperately to pull herself out. He remembered tears, heat, panic, running. And he realized that he needed to get back on the road.  
He had swerved a bit, tears clouding his vision in irate blindness. Damn that Castiel. Damn him, and damn all the angels that came with him. Damn the memories, damn the pictures, damn it all. He wanted them to stop. But Castiel showed up, an angel, a real one, and now he was stuck.  
By the time he got home, Sam had retreated to his room and Bobby was sprawled out on the couch, asleep.  
"Heya, Dean." Jo called, running a comb through her knotty blonde hair. "You go for a drive?"  
"Yeah." He replied, tossing his coat onto the armchair nearby and stretching. "What's dinner?"  
"Red beans and rice. Mom made em' for Dad, he's not feeling too great."  
"Well, here's to hoping he feels better." He chuckled. "Hanging with Charlie and Becky tonight?"  
"Yeah. Charlie's got a new girlfriend she's bringing, someone she met at San Diego Comic Con."  
"That's cool." He monotoned, grabbing a beer and taking a swig before Jo snatched it out of his hand. "Dean, mom warned you about drinking in the house."  
"Right, whatever." He mumbled. "Buzz off, pantywad."  
Jo whacked him on the back of the head painfully, ice shooting through his spine. "Ow!"  
"Don't call me that, you dick." She hissed, turning on her heel and stomping away. He rubbed the offended area and stood, knees shaking. He should've known better. Jo wasn't one to take shit. However, she did take his beer, so he grabbed another and went to see what Sam was up to.  
"Hey, Sammy." He closed the door behind him with a soft thud. Sam looked up, hair swaying in front of huge brown eyes. "Dean- Why are you here?" His old leather bound journal was sprawled out in front of him again. He never got out of that thing nowadays. Drove Dean a little nuts.  
"You still writing?" He said, plopping down next to him and ruffling his hair. This earned him a "Stop that, Dean." and a slap at his hand. He chuckled and took another swig of his beer, which earned a disgusted sneer from his younger brother.  
"Dean, you know Aunt Ellen said no drinking."  
"Oh, save it. Jo already gave me what for."  
Sam scoffed and turned again, poring over his books. "Whatcha reading?"  
Sam didn't respond, so he peered over his shoulder. Modern Art History, The Anatomically Based Collection Of Finches, and Ellen's-  
"Crap." He mumbled. "Sam, I need that book."  
"What?"  
"It's really important. I- uh, I kind of ran into an angel, or I guess you could say pushed him out of the way of a bus."  
Sam's eyes lit up wildly, his whole body straightening.  
"W-What did he look like? Was he blonde? Did he have paint stains on him or anything?"  
"No, sorry..." He mumbled apologetically. "Dark hair, blue eyes, weird tan hoodie and black jeans."  
"Oh..." Sam whispered. "Sorry."  
"You still trying to find G?" He asked.  
Sam nodded and he patted him on the back. "You'll find him, I promise. But I need the Angel Encyclopedia."  
"Fine. Careful with it, Dean..."  
"I'm always careful."  
"Sure. That's why Ellen banned pets."  
"That was one time!"  
"The hamsters count."  
"I was like, 8!"  
"You set one on fire with a SOLDERING gun. Like, I can't even fix a piece of jewlery with one of those things."  
"I'm just talented."  
Sam chuckled, which made Dean smile. "Best of luck, lil bro."  
"You too, Dean."


	6. Chapter 6

Cas clicked his phone shut and leaned his head back into the wall of the highway. Cars zipped past, brushing him with brisk air and the smell of smoke. "Ugh... Fuck."  
He'd been walking, but there was a pit in his stomach that was growing steadily larger. Michael didn't know. Michael didn't know. All of this, behind his back, all of it, rebellion.  
His knees buckled as he fell against the smooth asphalt, a panic rising in his throat. He couldn't get entangled. Not now. He should have reported the Winchesters, better yet killed them. But he couldn't. They saved his life. And... Ellen. She had changed something in him, something huge. He was different from his brothers because he valued love while they valued loyalty, and he wanted nothing more than to be one of them.  
A red Cadillac sped far too close for comfort and he jumped up quickly, wings extended sharply. A dull ache filled the sprained appendage as he re-closed them. His eyes darted to watch the car speed off, swerving dangerously. Whoever was in that car obviously wasn't paying attention.  
He started back towards home, his feet skidding through the grey, wrapper laden dust. Today it was musty and cold, the air was laden with pockets of standard pollution that hit you like balloons filled with smog. A light wind dusted through the treetops and chilled his bones.  
When he made it back downtown, his legs ached and he popped another ibuprofen down before moving to enter the bar.  
He moved skittishly. 19 was no age to be in a bar, and he looked maybe sixteen. He had thick, scrubby dark hair and the formings of an oblongly square jaw. His eyes were too long for his face and were a frightening powder blue. Acne and five o' clock shadow peppered his jawline and neck, a soft scrub of scarring on his temple and the makings of a bruise forming near his nose. He was lanky, despite his deceptive strength, wearing old black jeans and his tan hoodie for warmth. His shoes were beat up old running shoes he got from his brother Uriel when they grew too small, but by now they were irrevocably his. The bartender glanced at him once, but with a glare, he had turned back to the muddy taps. The dim smokiness of an unventilated room clouded his senses uncomfortably.  
"Cas! Good to see you again." The voice cheered. It wasn't long before a face emerged from a booth near the back.  
"Balthazar." Cas monotoned.  
"Oh, what is it with you tightwads, insisting on saying the name of everyone you meet?" His mild British accent was a comforting sound, and Cas almost immediately warmed up and smiled. "It's good to see you again, Balthazar."  
"Good to see you too, Cas." The Brit thumped his arm and handed him a drink. "You look like you could use it."  
"I don't-" He trailed off as Balthazar gave him a look. "Fine. Just one, though." He sipped gingerly at it. It was unpleasantly sour and he was careful to slip it onto a nearby table when Balthazar turned away.  
He sat at the booth with his friend, who ordered another round as they made small talk.  
"Cas, you ever hear of The Salvage?"  
He picked absentmindedly at his teeth with a toothpick as he stared at a girl across the room.  
"Not to my knowledge, no." Cas mumbled.  
"I've recently become acquainted with a few of their members. It's a really interesting organization, actually. Very similar work to that of you and your brothers."  
Cas stiffened slightly, but urged him on. "Yes?"  
"They work underground, for no pay. A bit like Robin Hood and his merry men, I'd even say. They commit crimes, minor ones, petty theft and such. They work for the lower class, like a sort of benefactorial police." The man trailed off as the busty blonde approached him. Cas turned away and began typing on his mobile.  
the salvage Los Angeles  
Fifteen thousand, two hundred and forty eight results.  
the salvage crime fighting Los Angeles  
Two hundred eighty nine results.  
A thought occurred to him. He acted on impulse, out of curiousity.  
Ellen Harvelle salvage  
Four results.  
One was a link to a website for Singer Salvage and Auto. He bookmarked the link for later. The three others?  
Arrest records, birth records, and a broken HTML.  
He first trawled the arrests. Ellen Harvelle had been arrested four times for petty theft, and once for breaking and entering. Elaine Herell, completely unrelated, was apparently a young business woman in Sherman Oaks. According to the birth records, Ellen was 54 years old, with orange hair and brown eyes, born late by Cesarian section. The pictures under the arrest file were broken, or at least unavailable on Cas's phone. He put it away and looked up to see that Balthazar had meandered over to the bar where he was playing drinking games with a gaggle of young women. Cas sighed and turned to go, but not before asking the waitress to tell Balthazar he was leaving.  
Stepping out into the frigid night air, he extended his wings softly and let them tuck around his body comfortably. The warmth that radiated through them was soothing as he worked his way through the crowded streets of Los Angeles to the subway station. Lights flickered above him like irate fireflies, clinging to the strong metal poles that bound them into the asphalt sea. A gust of wind rattled the windows of a nearby bus stop. People pushed and shoved, loud and brash without a word escaping their tired, hungry lips. It was melancholically peaceful, like the end of a Sunday night. As though the freedom would soon be gone. As though once again, they would be birds trapped in cages. Yet, it was peaceful, and that was the enjoyable part.

Dean woke up to Ellen's screaming and the loss of feeling in his legs.  
"DEAN WINCHESTER! YOU GET IN HERE RIGHT THIS MINUTE!"  
With a groan, he pushed Jo off his legs and hoisted himself up. He took a minute to prop her head up. She must have fallen asleep studying. There was a concern in Dean, a need to help Jo, to protect her. He wanted her to be better than him. But that would have to wait. Ellen was livid.  
"DEAN WINCHESTER! IS THIS AN EMPTY BEER BOTTLE?" She waved the offending object around dangerously. He nodded with a sigh. "Sorry, Ellen."  
She took a deep breath. "Dean, look... I know it's never been easy. I know I'm harsh, that Bobby can be a bit detached, but Dean, drinking ain't gonna solve your problems. You'll just end up like your dad."  
Dean tensed frantically at the mention. He hated the man. He hated him in life, hated him in death. It hit home as he locked on to Ellen's eyes, suddenly wide with the realization of the gravitas of her words.  
"Oh... God, hon, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"  
"It's fine." He choked. "Don't worry about it. No more alcohol, I promise."  
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the kitchen as he heard the hollow thud of the bottle hitting the bottom of the trash can. An involuntary shiver ripped through him. He couldn't be like his dad. He wouldn't.  
But there was still a frustrating part of him that told him he was.


End file.
